Recognizing Genius
by JUSTxAxFRIENDLYxPSYCHO
Summary: "Mediocrity knows nothing higher than itself; but talent instantly recognizes genius."-Arthur Conan Doyle. A different origin and a different set of circumstances...could that make for a different Harry? Story-centric...no real pairings planned.
1. Chapter 1

"Recognizing Genius"

A different start leads to a (somewhat) different life for a child that could have (would have) been known as Harry Potter in another time, another set of circumstances. The opportunity for Harry Potter died prematurely with the death of James Potter, but Tristan Holmes—son of Lily Potter (nee Evans) and Sherrinford Holmes—is another matter.

Loosely based both on the Harry Potter and BBC Sherlock universes. Over-all spoiler warning, though how heavily I will spoil either series is TBD, currently...

**Disclaimer**: I am not J. K. Rowling, nor a member of Scholastic/Warner Bros. and associates, nor A. Conan Doyle, nor Mark Gastiss, nor Stephen Moffat, so I have legal rights to absolutely nothing.

…...

_Mediocrity knows nothing higher than itself; but talent instantly recognizes genius—Arthur Conan Doyle (The Valley of Fear)_

[Prologue/Teaser]

When Lily had insisted to James that their home have a muggle radio, she had been more thinking about listening to the music than the news. However, even before she became aware of the discreet _ping_ that signaled an incoming Floo call, her attention was caught by the tense voices of the newscasters, broadcasting the "latest, breaking news" about a massive bombing in the Underground District line, somewhere between Whitechapel and Barking.

Lily felt her breath catch in her chest, and gripped the counter-top to save herself from toppling onto the expensive tiling of the kitchen floor. James. Merlin...God..._Fuck_. James had been on the District line, going to visit Remus with Sirius, headed towards Barking. She tried to convince herself that everything was fine...James had left early enough to have missed the accident, but she knew. She knew how bad James was with navigating the Underground, even with Sirius there. She knew that there was every chance that the two had become lost and had to backtrack to the District line.

_PING!_

The Floo alert sounded again, and Lily moved dazedly toward the front salon to answer the call, hoping that it was one of her boys trying to call and tell her that they were fine, that they had missed the explosion.

"Lily?! God DAMN IT, LILY! ARE YOU THERE?" It was Remus' voice—calm, collected Remus—shouting out to her from the fire grating.

"...here," Lily felt her voice catch in her throat and had to clear it before she could be heard from across the salon, "I'm here, Remus! What's wrong? What's happened?"

"I heard about the bombing...are James and Sirius there? I thought that they might have been running late again, and then I heard about the...acci..den—" Lily saw Remus' face fall as his voice died away. He must have caught her expression of panic and sheer, fucking, anguish as the possibilities raced through her mind. James and Sirius had left for Remus' HOURS ago. If they weren't with him, and they hadn't Floo'd to let them know that they were safe, then...?

OHGODOHGODOHGODOHGOD

She must have been mumbling aloud, as Remus pushed his way through the Floo in time to catch her before her head hit the floor. Lily clung to Remus, shaking and silent, tears dripping down her cheeks, as he mumbled soothing words in her ears. She appreciated the sentiment, but wasn't really in a position to a be soothed by it.

The two sat there, clinging to each other, for hours, legs cramped and stiff and faces feeling tight from the salt of their tears. They waited...and waited...and waited for James and Sirius to Floo call, hope dying painfully slowly for each hour the two missing men did not contact them. At last, at 4 a.m., the two were jerked out of their stupor by a Floo call. Lily practically scrambled to the edge of the fireplace, hoping to see her husband's face...perhaps a bit dirty, but beaming and alive. Her face fell as she recognized the face of Amelia Bones, looking wan and pale.

"Lily...you need to head down to the Met in muggle London. They're calling in everyone with missing persons to help identify the bodies that they've recovered..."

Lily's breath hitched in her chest, painful and tight, and felt her body shudder and tremble at the thought of having to identify her husband and her friend's corpses. "So...then, they're sure...? James is...?"

Amelia shook her head. "That's just it...they can't tell. James and Sirius aren't registered with the Muggles, so they'd only be a couple of "Joe Bloggs" to the Yard and their people at St. Bart's."

Lily nodded in understanding, biting her lip even as her tears dripped down her cheeks. James...James and Sirius. OHGOD. She didn't want to have to identify their bodies, not alone, not at ALL, if it could be helped. A rustle from the Floo brought her attention back to James' boss, giving her a soft, pitying look even as her disembodied arm stuck through the green flames, holding a singed handkerchief out for Lily to take.

"...this...this might be difficult, Lily, if it turns out—well, the point is, you'd be better off taking someone along with you, yeah? Call Remus—"

"—he's already here."

"Well then, that's even better. Take a cab with Remus. Stop for coffee first. Do WHATEVER you have to, just...please...don't go alone?"

Lily mustered a very feeble smile to show her appreciation for Amelia's concern, but it didn't seem to alleviate the older woman's worries. Instead, she tsk'd at Lily but simply bid her farewell before ending the call.

She sat there, staring blankly at the dying embers of the fire, before she felt the gentle grip of Remus' hands on her shoulders, urging her to stand. Quietly, he led her from the room, helping her into her coat and making sure she grabbed her keys to lock the door behind them. The somber-faced duo said nothing as they headed down Upper Belgrave Street, wandering a bit...wanting to put off, if only for a moment, having to catch a cab down to the Met. Even though it would not change anything...not really...the longer they put off having to go to the station, the less "real" everything seemed to be.

It was nearing 7 am by the time Remus and Lily were climbing into a cab, their bodies heavy and weary from little sleep and intense worry. They were about to close the door when a pale, haggard gentleman towing two young children frantically called out to them.

"Pardon...PARDON! I need to get to the Met in a hurry, do you mind if I catch this cab? Please?"

Lily blinked, looking at the tense lines around the man's pale blue eyes, seeing his half-dressed appearance and quickly dressed children who were frowning sleepily at her. Instead of getting out, she nudged Remus to scoot over to make room. "Actually, we're headed to the Met, ourselves. You're welcome to ride with us."

Pale Eyes blinked, tilting his head slightly to look at her in consideration. With his wide eyes and dark, shaggy hair, he reminded Lily of a puppy...a very thin, very tall puppy mind, but a puppy none the less. "Thank you, madam...sir," he turned to tug at the boy leaning against his leg, "Mycroft, hold your brother, would you, so that we can all fit inside comfortably."

The child—Mycroft, his father called him—pouted at the toddler that was dropped into his arms, and the child, to Lily's surprise, seemed to return his brother's pout with a sneer.

The ride to the Met was made in silence, the unhappy squirming of the youngest boy (Sherlock, his brother had called him) the only real disturbance to the stillness that pervaded the cramped cab. Lily bit her lip as she watched young Mycroft growing ever more impatient with his brother's squirming. He looked to be about to shout at the babe, so Lily reacted on instinct with a quickly mumbled "Pardon me" as she pulled the squirming child from his brother's arms and plopped him into her lap. The move seemed to have stunned the small boy into stillness, as he sat stiffly for a moment, before turning his wide, somber gaze (the same pale color as his father's) upon her face.

"Well, I couldn't very well have let you harass your brother, could I? It's still quite early, and I trust you'd both be better off not fighting when you're already exhausted, yes?" Lily hadn't realized until she said it that a child young Sherlock's age might not understand an argument of logic, but the way he settled back, loose limbed and disgruntled, proved otherwise. A glance toward Pale Eyes and Mycroft showed a mix of amusement (the former) and tired gratitude (the latter).

By the time that the cab pulled up, young Sherlock had drifted off in Lily's lap, his small face set in an adorable pout. She let out the others first, including Remus, before reluctantly handing the sleeping child back to his smiling father. "Thank you. Sherlock is a good boy, but he does so enjoy trying people's patience."

"He was no problem at all. Quite the cuddler, in fact."

A muffled snort from Mycroft drew her attention to the round-faced little boy. "He'd throw a fit if he heard you say that."

Lily wanted to say that she doubted it, but with how the babe had seemed to follow their conversation so closely earlier, she couldn't say for sure that the child wouldn't understand what she was saying about him. Instead she settled for a wry smile and tiny shrug as she and the small family wandered into the station and up to the front desk to find the officer in charge. She gave a final, somber nod to the small family as she and Remus were led away to fill out some paperwork before heading out to St. Bart's.

…...

Lily didn't move. She didn't move for hours, even as her arse and thighs went numb from sitting so long on the uncomfortable plastic of the chairs in the hall. She'd done it, she and Remus both. They'd identified both James and Sirius a while ago, but Lily was too numb to move. So, instead she sat, hunched over her knees, trying to KEEP BREATHING, to NOT PANIC, as the truth of the matter sunk in. James was gone. Sirius was gone. James and Sirius were GONE...forever.

Lily's whole body twitched as someone dropped heavily into the seat next to her. Peering up through her curtain of red hair, she saw the pale, wilted form of the man she'd called Pale Eyes, looking as lost as her. Ah. So, he'd been here to identify someone, too...and by the looks of him, it seemed like he was handling it just as well as she was.

"I know it means shite right now, but...sorry."

The man's gaze cut over to her, razor sharp, before flitting away again. "You're right...it does mean shite right now, but I suppose 'thanks' are in order."

Lily snorted in surprise before biting her lip. Gods, but did he remind her of Severus when they were still on speaking terms. She was in no mood to laugh, but this man...this stranger...had nearly surprised a laugh out of her. The man gave her a strange, considering look, but didn't say anything else for a moment.

"Sherrinford."

"Er...pardon?" Lily looked up from where she'd been frowning at her hands.

"My name, it is Sherrinford Holmes." Lily considered the man, so polite one minute, so blunt the next, and wondered what kind of person this strange, socially awkward man was.

"Alright." Another moment of silence. Sherrinford shifted in his seat, sneaking looks at Lily, before blurting out, "this is usually the point when you reciprocate with an introduction."

"Lily Potter. Pleasure." Lily was surprised to realize that it actually was a pleasure to meet Mr. Holmes, even with circumstances being what they were. If nothing else, he was an immense distraction from sitting and brooding about James.

"Where are your boys? Mycroft and Sherlock...where did they go?"

"Hmm? Oh, well they're back home with my brother. They didn't need to see their mother like..."

"Ah." Another silence, though this was was restful and not uncomfortable, like the one before had been. Lily stared down at her hand, twisting her wedding band around her finger and tugging at the ends of her limp, heavy locks. Sherrinford was seated, tilted back in the chair, his long limbs stretched out in front of him, glaring blankly at the ceiling. The two of them could have sat there for a second, or an hour, or a day, and Lily would not have known the difference. In that moment, that quiet, time had stopped, and all that was left was a mutual grief shared between virtual strangers.

The moment was broken by Remus, holding two giant, steaming mugs, walking toward them down the hall. He seemed to pause as he glanced between Lily and Sherrinford before continuing down the hall.

"I brought you some tea, Lils. It's not much...just the stuff from the student caf...but, it'll probably do for now."

Lily gave a grateful smile and took a deep drink of the milky (no sugar) Earl Grey before wordlessly passing the cup to Sherrinford. He paused to give her another one of his sharp, considering Looks before he brought the mug up to his lips for a few leisurely sips.

Remus, watching the two silently interact, passing the tea between the two of them wordlessly, just shook his head and looked away. That move with the shared tea had reminded him strongly of something he'd seen his own parents do, despite how inappropriate the thought may be in the current context. Lily was grieving, as was the widower muggle, and misery made strange bed-fellows.

...and Gods, if that didn't bring to mind things that Remus did not want to consider. He liked to think that he knew Lily, but everyone dealt with grief differently. He wondered if she would be one to wallow, or if she'd be one to find emotional catharsis in moody sex with an (admittedly) attractive stranger. Either way, he'd be there for her, but he wasn't sure he could handle knowing, if she chose the latter.

It had started out as a "fluke," the result of loneliness, too much alcohol, and Sherrinford's boys visiting their Uncle Augustine in the country for the weekend. He'd invited Lily over for a bit of tea and company...nothing out of the ordinary, as they'd started taking their tea together after their rather tragic meeting more than three months ago. Tea had turned into luncheon, which had turned into supper, which had turned into after-dinner drinks in the private salon.

Maybe it was the bottle of Laphroaig (aged thirty years, and a gift of his Great-Uncle Fergus), or maybe it was the Pinot Noir (Château Lafite-Rothschild, 1869) that came after, but Lily seemed to glow in the firelight, her skin radiating a warm gold and her hair like autumn fire. Sherrinford's impulse control had never been the best, something anyone who knew him could tell you, and the alcohol only made things worse. So, when the idea to kiss Lily popped into his head, he did so. It took a moment for her to kiss him back, but she had. Well, she'd done a lot more than just kiss him back (not that Sherrinford was blameless in the events that followed), but that was beside the point. The point was, it was a fluke...an accident...not to be repeated.

Only...only, they did repeat it. It always happened after drinks had been poured, so it was easily blamed upon the alcohol. If the drinks went untouched more and more often, neither said anything, simply continuing to excuse their behavior by blaming their indulgent drinking. Both, so determined not to acknowledge the fact that they were more than friends or more than casually involved, were shocked to realize that more than a year and a half passed in this manner. In the end, Sherrinford was the first to cave and request Lily's continued company: "We seem to enjoy each other physically, your conversation is rarely tedious, and you tolerate my troublesome children, so I don't see why we should remain in denial."

Sherrinford's poor conversation start had earned him a black eye, but Lily had eventually agreed to sell her home on Belgrave Square and move in with the aggravating man and his equally as troublesome children. No more than three months later, Lily discovered that she was pregnant.

It was most definitely the first time that Lily truly witnessed Sherrinford at a loss for words, and would probably be the last time, so she basked in the moment. After a moment, he cleared his throat, fussed with his tie, and blurted out a breathless "Well, I guess we should marry then, shouldn't we?"

Lily, though she shouldn't have been surprised by his response, had been shocked and given her lover his second black eye for his "truly horrendous proposal." She'd apologized, of course, after which she immediately agreed that it would be a good idea to get married, if only so their child would have the same rights and protections as his older half-brothers. If she was visibly pregnant in her wedding pictures, none of the guests said a word, not with the imposing figure that Sherrinford made looking them down, and not with Sherrinford's two little boys giving them wide, penetrating stares, almost daring them to say anything horrid about their "new mummy."

Nearly three months to the day after their hurried wedding, Lily and Sherrinford welcomed a baby boy that looked like his father, but who would have his mother's eyes, once the dark blue all newborns had faded away. As was their wont, the couple bickered and sniped as they tried to come up with a name.

In the end, after a week of having to refer to the newborn as "Holmes, baby boy" when speaking to the nurses about his progress, young Mycroft had made the decision for his parents when he forged their signatures on the birth certificate after naming his brother Tristan Sherrinford Holmes. It was, of course, generally agreed to be an excellent name, except by Sherlock, who pouted that he would have chosen Carrington. Mycroft had pouted until the gormless child admitted it was because he was "beautiful, like mummy."

So it was, the Holmes gentlemen welcomed another into their fold, with the ever-revered "Mummy" as the center of their worlds.

[End Prologue/Teaser]


	2. Chapter 2

"Recognizing Genius"

Loosely based both on the Harry Potter and BBC Sherlock universes. Over-all spoiler warning, though how heavily I will spoil either series is TBD, currently...

**Disclaimer**: I am not J. K. Rowling, nor a member of Scholastic/Warner Bros. and associates, nor A. Conan Doyle, nor Mark Gatiss, nor Stephen Moffat, so I have legal rights to absolutely nothing.

...

_Mediocrity knows nothing higher than itself; but talent instantly recognizes genius—Arthur Conan Doyle (The Valley of Fear)_

Chapter One

If Lily had thought that Sherrinford was infuriating, she was soon to realize that the man had nothing on his extended family. Augustine "Auggie" Holmes, Sherrinford's older brother, had as little use for tact as he did for soap. Even weeks after one of the man's surprise visits, Lily could still smell the man's odor (a mix of cigar smoke and a heavy cologne to mask the smell of stale sweat) lingering in the guest rooms. Aside from Auggie, there were "the Three Mesdames": Aveline Vernet, Sherrinford's mother, his aunts Julia Frances and Maria-Elizabeth, and his insular great uncle Fergus from his father's side. All were equally as grand (especially the Great Ladies), both in manner and in intellect, and more often then not left Lily feeling both very young and very foolish. The fact that the three Grand Ladies only ever agreed when patronizing Lily for being "such a young, pretty thing" was even more irksome than the cloud of stale air that seemed to hover around Auggie.

Even so, She handled them all well enough, she'd thought, at Sherrinford and her wedding. That Christmas after Tristan was born, however, was another story. In their usual Grand Fashion, the Mesdames had arrived together, in opulent clothes, and obviously "not speaking," once more. It was more than an hour later when Auggie trailed in, odor and all, followed by a pristine Fergus whose nose wrinkled discreetly at the cloud of smoke and heavy cologne hovering around his brother's grand-child. With the air of false politeness and barely restrained hostility hovering around the matronly ladies, both the cocktail hour and the family dinner that followed were particularly painful experiences. It was Sherlock, oddly enough, who was Lily's saving grace during both, as the five-year-old kept "Grand-mere Vernet" and his two great-aunts thoroughly distracted with talk of his "experiments" on the bugs in the flower garden.

The mood seemed to settle with the Mesdames' distraction, and even the cold civility and barely-restrained hostility seemed mostly bearable...until the after dinner Brandy was served. Two snifters in, odoriferous Auggie started making inappropriate comments about how 'fit' Lily looked, so soon after a pregnancy, despite Sherrinford's dark scowls and curt responses. Even Fergus, prone to sitting in a corner of the lounge with his Brandy and ignoring everything around him, looked put out. Mycroft, though only just twelve-years-old, was quite intelligent and knew that his uncle was upsetting "mummy," becoming increasingly stroppy with the drunken man. Sherlock, though usually one to be contrary for the sake of contrariness, teamed up with his older brother in a strop at their uncle. With the fall of the children's good spirits, the Mesdames no longer had a distraction.

Restrained disgust became outward scorn as the Aunts simultaneously scolded Auggie for his behavior while making pointed comments: "How lacking in social graces his mother must be, to let him carry on thus." In the end, Mycroft and Sherlock retreated with their five-month-old brother to his nursery, which was a wise move on their parts, as Lily very much regretted not doing the same, by the end of the night. Even weeks after the fact, that particular Holmes' Christmas could not be mentioned or discussed without causing every adult who had been present to visibly cringe in memory.

…

With her utter immersion into all things Holmes', as well as her new baby, Lily did not have much time to worry about the goings on in the Wizarding community. Were it not for the occasional letter from Remus, Tristan's god father, Lily would have put the Wizarding World out of her mind, altogether.

She had, of course, heard about the tragedy that befell the Longbottoms and how their son Neville defeated the Dark Lord, but that was more than a year and a half before. Since then, she had heard very little save the occasional gossip about who from her graduating class was married to whom, and nothing at all about Severus, who she'd been surprised to learn had been spying for Albus.

So, when Remus showed up at her front door with Severus one sunny day in April, a few days short of Sherlock's sixth birthday, Lily was surprised. "What...? Remus? Is that—Severus! It's been ages! You can't know how I've missed you."

Lily's face ached she was smiling so widely and she absently shifted Tristan in her arms so she could pull her oldest friend inside and hug him. Tristan smiled cutely around his bright blue dummy, reaching his arms out to be held by his mummy's friend.

With the nine-month-old's fingers tangling in Severus' hair, Lily could do little but hand her precocious child over and watch as the two took the measure of the other. Tristan, looking more and more like Sherrinford everyday (but with the same piercing stare of all the Holmes gentlemen), seemed fascinated by Severus and ran tiny hands through lank, black locks of hair. Severus didn't quite smile at the child, but he didn't fidget or scowl, either. After a moment, Tristan twisted in Severus arms and reached for his mother. Lily swooped him up with a grin and an enthusiastic kiss on a chubby cheek as she led her two visitors into the lounge. The little boy giggled, turning his cheek away with a loud, giggled "_Nooooo_" muffled by his dummy.

Severus gave the child a surprised look before looking back at Lily. "He's talking already? Isn't he young, still?"

Lily shared a quick, amused glance with Remus and smiled at Severus. "Knowing his father and brothers as I do, I'd have been more surprised if he wasn't talking by now."

Severus acknowledged her comment with a tip of his head. Remus, finally seated comfortably, fixed a somber gaze on Lily. She felt her stomach drop and slowly lowered herself into a seat, minding Tristan's kicking legs.

"What's happened?"

Severus and Remus seemed to fidget in place, not wanting to answer, but it was finally Severus who spoke up. "You heard, of course, about the prophecy?"

"Yes, of course. That Longbottom boy fulfilled it. What of it?"

Severus swallowed heavily, refusing to meet Lily's eyes. "You also heard of my...involvement in the situation?"

Lily's frown smoothed out and she reached forward to pat Severus on the arm. "Yes, and I also heard of the risks you took to right your mistake."

Severus sat there, staring fixedly at his lap, for a moment before continuing. "I'm sure that you've heard that there are still quite a few Death Eaters at large."

Lily sighed and shifted Tristan back against her chest, letting the child play with her fingers. "Yes, of course. I occasionally hear from Albus, and Remus keeps me pretty up to date on things."

Remus leaned forward, looking uncomfortable but determined. "That's just it...we're here because Albus is worried...worried about the Death Eaters coming after you."

Lily felt her body go momentarily numb in surprise and she leaned heavily against the arm of her lounge chair. "Why on EARTH—? I'm not even technically a citizen, anymore. I don't work for the Magical government, I don't keep my money in their banks, I have no legal ties to James' inheritance or properties, so _WHY_—?"

"We're aware of that Lily, but nevertheless, Dumbledore is concerned that you'll be targeted by one of the remaining factions."

"But..._WHY_? I barely even go by Diagon Alley, anymore, save to meet Remus at the Leaky."

"Yes, well...you were seen as an 'upstart muggle-born' with your high profile marriage to a wealthy Pure-Blood. A lot of the traditionalists were worried about other families 'sullying themselves,' following the example of the Potters, who were one of the oldest, richest families in Wizarding Britain. But now...well, you're a 'shameless muggle-born' for marrying 'below your quality'. A lot of those same traditionalists, some of whom are former Death Eaters, are taking it as an insult that you'd choose a muggle spouse over living cloistered in widow's garb for the rest of your life. It's idiotic and frustrating, yes, but you KNOW that there is no winning with these fanatics, and Dumbledore worries...we ALL worry...that you and your family will be targeted in the raids."

Once upon a time, Lily would have brushed off the concern with a stubborn frown, but knew enough about Wizarding politics to know that if she was attacked, the Magical Ministry would do very little to help her, as she was 'merely a muggle-born' and had 'abandoned' the Magical World. Feeling very put upon, she sighed and addressed Severus. "He can put up wards, if he must, but there'll be no convincing Sherry to go into hiding, and I'll not go without he and the boys. Let's leave it at that and not argue, yeah?"

Severus looked like he wanted to argue the point while Remus sat back, pinching the bridge of his nose and looking extremely pained. After staring for a few minutes longer, Severus sat back in a huff, but nodded in acknowledgment to Lily's terms.

The silence was only awkward long enough for Remus to inquire about the boys (Tristan, in particular), and the friendly mood soon returned. Though Severus seemed to frown at the mention of Sherry and the boys, he listened, none the less, as Lily entertained them with stories of Mycroft using his coveted reading time to entertain Tristan with stories, instead. Remus outright laughed and Severus' mouth twitched as Lily bemoaned young Sherlock constantly kidnapping Tristan from his cot and carrying him off on "grand pirate adventures," often returning the toddler caked in mud, with bits of leaves and dead flowers in his hair.

Remus, peering at someone near the lounge door, smirked at Lily. Severus, catching sight of whoever or whatever it was, gave a wicked grin and mumbled "Speaking of which...it looks like your baby thief is looking for his prize."

Lily whipped around to see Sherlock, sulking near the doorway, decked in a few of Sherrinford's belts to hold his plastic swords, with a tie wrapped around his head like a make shift eye-patch. Rising to her feet, Lily walked towards the curly-haired little boy, playfully wrapping her arms around Tristan when he noticed she had his quarry. "Is this who you're looking for, Captain?"

Sherlock pouted at her, shuffling his feet. "A Captain's no good without his First Mate, mummy."

Lily bit back a laugh, knowing Sherlock to be in earnest, but called him forward. "Well, if you can promise to take good care of your First Mate and to not return him covered in mud, then I suppose I can spare him for the sake of his Captain."

Sherlock gave Lily a swift, penetrating look before flashing her one of his rare smiles. "I'll do my very best, mummy, to make sure Tristan doesn't get muddy."

Lily gave a dramatic sigh but smiled and gently handed Tristan over to Sherlock, who took him from her equally as gently. She felt a grin split her face as she watched him walk off with Tristan, whispering his "grand plans" into his baby brother's delicate ear.

[End Chapter One]


	3. Chapter 3

**Recognizing Genius**

**Loosely based both on the Harry Potter and BBC Sherlock universes. Over-all spoiler warning, though how heavily I will spoil either series is TBD, currently...**

**Disclaimer: I am not J. K. Rowling, nor a member of Scholastic/Warner Bros. and associates, nor A. Conan Doyle, nor Mark Gastiss, nor Stephen Moffat, so I have legal rights to absolutely nothing.**

****Thanks for all the continued support!

_Mediocrity knows nothing higher than itself; but talent instantly recognizes genius—Arthur Conan Doyle (The Valley of Fear)_

[C 2]

Sherrinford had moments to brace himself as he stepped through the front door, the familiar thundering of Tristan's steps rushing toward him from down the hall. A childish squeal left the two-year-old as he collided with his father's legs, startling a sharp laugh out of the smartly dressed man. With a swing of his arms, Sherrinford swung his youngest up into his arms, sighing ruefully as he realized, too late, that the child's hands were absolutely covered in India Ink..._wet_ India Ink, leaving small black hand prints all over his fine suit.

"What _have_ you been doing, Tristan?"

"Myc'oft was teach me'en-"

"-It's _Mycroft_ and the word is 'and,' Tristan, not 'en'."

"-Yes, _Mycroft_ was showing me _and _Sherlock to write wif-"

"-it's _with_, son—"

"-DADDY, _p'ease_!" Tristan caught his father's raised brow and rolled his eyes cutely, huffing, "_Please_." The child paused, his eyes narrowed as if waiting to see if his father was going to interrupt him again. "Sherlock and I were using proper cal...cally...cal-lig-raph-y pens. Myc'o..._Mycroft_ was mad at Sherlock for not paying attention, and Sherlock threw a fit. The ink got all over the desk _and_ carpet and mummy frowned, and now Mycroft and Sherlock are _sulking_."

Sherrinford had to press his lips into a tight line to keep from smirking at the child's dark frown. As generally emotive as his youngest could be, he was rarely sulky and seemed put off whenever one of his Heroic Older Brothers had a bit of a strop. The curse of brilliant children: it was too easy to forget that they _were_ children. Then, of course, he would be brought rudely back to Earth by practical Mycroft having a snit over some little trifle, or by Sherlock's temper tantrums, or by Tristan's uncanny talent for mischief.

With a sigh that was not, _absolutely_ not, hiding a laugh, Sherrinford carried his son off for the Master Bath, hoping the ink wouldn't stain skin and that he wouldn't have to explain to Lily why he had black smears across his chin and best suit. He was sure that she'd found Tristan's smattering of inky freckles trying enough. Of course, since he was attempting discretion, Sherrinford had to run into Mycroft immediately. The boy paused in his journey down the hall, his scowl smoothing into something faintly resembling amusement as he looked between Tristan's dark palms and his father's suit and face.

Sherrinford sighed, feeling very put upon and shifted his grip on Tristan so that the boy didn't have to clutch quite so tightly to his suit (it was headed for the bin, as it was). "I assume that you'll be sharing this at tea, later."

The fourteen-year-old smirked and straightened out his own fine suit. "Oh, most definitely. Mummy won't like it, but no doubt Mr. Lupin and Mr. Snape will be quite amused to hear of it."

"You wouldn't dare."

Mycroft smiled and Sherrinford sighed. He'd stepped right into that one. "Well, that all depends. Normally, I wouldn't dare share this with anyone else, especially that meddlesome gossip-monger-"

"-Petunia is your mother's older sister, Mycroft. Show _some_ respect, please."

a twitch of a slightly grinning mouth, as they both knew the elder Holmes' opinion on the woman in question, "-but I _do_ so love Edinburgh this time of the year, and Uncle Fergus has promised fine fare and his best Lagavulin 30 for the occasion."

A brief, considering silence and Sherrinford took a moment to really look at his son. "Blackmail? Not your usual style, Mycroft...I'm surprised. You know, of course, that I'd have let you visit regardless, so what is this really about?"

A pause, as if Mycroft was heavily weighing the consequences of telling the truth, which he probably was. "I just need to be away for a bit, especially after today. Sherlock...I worry about him. _Constantly_. The truth is, though, that he seems to go out of his way to be contrary when I'm around. I only want to help him, help mummy _with_ him, but..."

A heavy silence settled between the two as one set of pale eyes met another. Sherrinford's keen eyes took in the stress lines around his son's eyes and mouth and his stiffened posture. "I see. You realize...you _do_ realize that you do not have to stress yourself over Sherlock? He is your brother, but your mother and I are looking out for him."

"I know this, of course, but even so. I worry, and then I makes things worse by acting on my worry, and the sort of thing that happened today happens. I know he's brilliant and self-sufficient, but I just don't see _why_ he has to see my worrying for him as _insulting_."

"...You mean for this to be more than a weekend excursion, then, hence the bargaining."

"Father-" Mycroft's gave shifted quickly, almost guiltily, to Tristan (who was being very quiet and very still, frowning sadly at his brother) before he trailed off.

Sherrinford, though he was naturally worried and upset that his oldest wanted to leave, knew that to try and stop Mycroft would only make his child bitter towards him, ultimately. "If you feel you must, then I won't stop you. However, since you feel you are old enough to leave this house, then you are old enough to break the news to your mother." Mycroft's shoulders drooped, but he remained resolute.

Another silence fell, this one solemn, and Tristan seemed to be squirming in his father's arms to try and get to his brother, who he had realized was "leaving him." After a moment of hesitation, Sherrinford reached out to gently brush his hand through his oldest son's dark locks, if only to let him know that he was not turning his back on him. He held Tristan firmly, even as the boy twisted in his arms, letting out little distressed cries.

"Sorry, Myc'oft. I'll be good, p'omise...me'en Sherlock...so you don't have to go away!"

Mycroft seemed to hunch slightly against the sad little pleas, not even able to scold the child for his "lazy" manner of speech. Sherrinford was torn between comforting his oldest boy with understanding, or not making it worse by letting Tristan carry on so.

"Hush now, son. Mycroft isn't going anywhere, yet. In the meantime, we need to clean you up before your mummy comes looking for us. Mycroft will still be here when you're done." The two older Holmes exchanged quick glances and Mycroft gave a discreet nod to let his father know that he wasn't rushing out the door that moment. A brief smile, and Sherrinford carried his pouting, sniveling youngest off to have a bath.

...

In the end, tea time with Mr. Lupin and Mr. Snape was terribly awkward for Mycroft. On the one hand, both his father and mummy were lovely with their keeping the conversation light and cheerful, but on the other hand, there were Tristan and Sherlock. Tristan, usually so loquacious and energetic during tea, had seemed content to quietly sit in mummy's lap, sipping from his tiny cup, only occasionally throwing him sad looks. Sherlock, of course, had noticed the change and had gone between watching Tristan worriedly and throwing Mycroft accusing looks, as if were to blame for the change (which he was, in this instance).

To be honest, Mycroft felt terribly torn and terribly indignant that he'd been made to feel that way. He deserved to have his space and enjoy time away from his family, and hated that Sherlock, with one...bloody...look, could make him feel like a horribly cliché villain out of one of mummy's Television melodramas. It's not like he was abandoning them forever, just...just for a few months, until he felt he could deal with life at home without doing (or saying) something regrettable.

In the end, Mycroft had been very poor company and eventually excused himself early so that he might call Uncle Fergus and start packing. Of course, his easy escape didn't last for long, as Sherlock stormed into his bedroom not an hour later, looking so formal and tidy in his little suit, glaring at him darkly as he brandished a letter at him.

"Go on! Read it, already!"

It took Mycroft's best efforts not to roll his eyes at the seven-year-old and gently push him out of his room. Instead, he gingerly took hold of the folded paper (parchment, Scrivenshaft's, from mummy's personal supply).

"Dear Sir,

For the grave injury served to our younger brother, Tristan Sherrinford, I, Sherlock Octavian Fergus Holmes, do henceforth claim vendetta against Mycroft Reginald Hamish Holmes. From this day forth, and until mutual reconciliation can be declared, we two are Arch Enemies.

Signed,

Sherlock Octavian Fergus Holmes."

Mycroft blinked, slowly. He certainly knew what he had read, but for some reason, it took a moment for it to sink in. When it did, he felt like he had swallowed ice. He was torn between anger...fierce, furious anger ("what RIGHT did Sherlock have?!") and tearful devastation. He loved Sherlock and Tristan...loved them _completely_...but _why_ did that mean that he had to sacrifice his emotional well-being for them? Was it fair to ask him to suffer just to appease them? No, but Sherlock didn't seem to agree with that sentiment.

He wanted to say so much...yell at Sherlock for being so _selfish_...cry and cling to Sherlock, if only to tell him that he was not abandoning him...but he didn't. He didn't because Sherlock was so stubborn, and Mycroft knew his brother well enough to know that he'd never listen to reason, not from _him_, now that he'd made up his mind. Instead, he folded the letter gently and tucked it into the inner pocket of his suit jacket.

"The sentiment is not mutual, I assure you, but I will...respect your decision."

The boy huffed indignantly as he turned his back on him, before marching out of the room. Mycroft made sure to shut the door tightly behind him before finally—finally-letting the tears fall.

[End C 2]


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: I've said it before...Harry Potter and BBC Sherlock belong to their respective owners; the only thing I can claim is whatever plot develops from this melding of the two universes.**

**I want to quickly express my glee for the continued support and thank you for being patient. University is my priority, but I will make sure to make more time for this, when I can.**

_Mediocrity knows nothing higher than itself; but talent instantly recognizes genius—Arthur Conan Doyle (The Valley of Fear)_

[C 3]

Mycroft smiled weakly as Tristan clung to his side like a limpet, his small hands grasping tightly at his arm. The child was no happier about his departure than he'd been before, but he seemed to have forgiven Mycroft's leaving enough to resume his habit of following him around like a duckling. Sherlock, of course, had been far more stubborn than Tristan, refusing to forgive him, even after "little Tristy" had stopped sulking. In the end, the atmosphere between the two eldest Holmes children had remained strained for the week prior to Mycroft's departure, despite mummy's best efforts to make things easier of her eldest boy.

Mummy was truly a person to be admired, even if admitting it out loud made him a "fussy swot," as some of his classmates had once called him. She had been nothing but understanding and affectionate with Mycroft, while simultaneously handling a testy Sherlock, who was determined to show his disdain for the brother who was "abandoning the family." The abuse from his brother, who knew just what to say to wound him, had been expected, but it _had_ hurt to hear, all the same. Though he would have liked to have spent time with the entire family on the day before his departure, he knew Sherlock would have gone out of his way to make things uncomfortable. The fact that mummy had quietly arranged a day in town for she and Sherlock so that Mycroft, Tristan and their father could have a peaceable day made him all the more thankful to her. Tristan had insisted on clinging to him, sometimes even taking over his lap, while their father had smiled his quiet, indulgent smile and kept up the light, pleasant conversation.

Mycroft blinked as the car shuddered to a stop by the curb. He felt Tristan's small hands tighten their hold on him stubbornly, as if he could keep Mycroft with him by will alone. The gentle weight of the toddler's head as it buried into his side, muffling the sound of his sniffles, was like a stab to the heart. Mycroft's hand shook lightly as it ran through the dark, downy hair of his youngest brother and he had to pause a moment to catch his breath. His chest felt tight and he swallowed once, twice, past a lump in this throat as he fought back tears. This was his decision. He had no place crying, not when it would make Tristan sad, not when he could so easily change his mind if he so wanted. He did not want to, however, so he'd save the tears for later, when Tristan couldn't see them.

"I need you to let go, ducky, so I can get out."

A whimper and stubborn shake of Tristan's head. "_No_."

Mycroft clucked at the child, blinking past the sting of waiting tears, and wrapped the boy in a tight hug. He brushed a brief kiss to the crown of his baby brother's head and leaned down to whisper in a tiny ear. "I'm just going for a little while, but I'll be back. _I promise you_, Tristy, but you have to let me go, now."

Wide green eyes blinked up at him, lashes clumped with tears. "Come back, 'k? P'omise ta come back, 'k, Myc'oft?"

Mycroft clenched his jaw at his brother's tears, feeling his own jaw wobble at the sight. It took a moment longer this time to swallow past the lump in his throat, but he managed, pasting a large smile on his lips. "Of course, ducky. I promise I will come back."

After a moment, Tristan slowly released his arm to let him climb out of the car. Mycroft, mindful of the filthy curb, crouched in front of the open car door and let his hand ruffle his brother's hair, fingers drifting down to gently tweak his little nose. "Remember, I'll be back before long. I'm sure if you ask mummy or father, they can help you write me letters, or call me in the evenings, too." Tristan gave him a wobbly smile at this and nodded. Despite his reluctance to hurry off when his brother was so distressed, Mycroft knew that he needed to get to the platform. With one more wave and a smile, he turned and walked away. Even though he could feel Tristan's gaze boring into his back, he firmed his shoulders and fought not to look back.

…

Sherlock was many things—stubborn, willful, oftentimes carelessly cruel, and very outspoken—but he was not a fool. Far from it, in fact. He knew that he was being unfair to Mycroft, no matter what mummy told The Bastard to make him feel better. Though he was not as smart as father or Mycroft...not yet, anyway...he was astute enough to realize that he was hurting Mycroft with his attitude and his refusal to give up his vendetta.

Though Sherlock knew all these things, he just...didn't...care. Mycroft was supposed to look out for them, for he and Tristan. To be honest, Sherlock was old enough, in his mind, not to need it so much as he had before, so could readily admit that had it been he alone that Mycroft was abandoning, he would not have necessarily cared. However, that wasn't the case. Tristan...he was still far too young to realize that he wasn't being left behind, so blamed himself for Mycroft running out on them. That...THAT...Sherlock could _not_ forgive. So, maybe he was being blatantly unfair and cruel in his treatment of his brother, but Mycroft had hurt Tristan, a child who adored him, so he bloody well deserved it.

If he felt a twinge of remorse at the flash of hurt and restrained, bitter tears, Sherlock would never say. He was doing this for Tristan, and Mycroft was just a bastard, after all.

…

Lily watched Sherlock from the doorway of the Sitting Room with a frown as the boy sat, unusually still and sombre, at the window seat. He'd settled himself there the moment Sherry, Mycroft and Tristan had left for the station and stubbornly refused to move until his father and younger brother returned. She stifled a sigh as she gazed at her middle son, the dark frown marring his usually pleasant face. It wasn't as if Lily didn't understand where Sherlock was coming from. In all honesty, she probably understood him better than the child realized. With a sister like Petunia and a friend like Severus, there was no way for Lily not to understand him.

She knew all too well the feelings of resentment and abandonment that Sherlock was clinging to. She too had felt them when Petunia had shunned her out of an ugly, vicious jealousy. It had been those feelings that she'd clung to all during her ride to Hogwarts, and all through that horribly awkward Winter recess that first year. Even Severus hadn't been able to distract her from the bitterness of those feelings as they'd festered in her. Lily recognized the bitter emptiness of betrayal on the child's face. She had felt it like a slap in the face when Severus, angry and lashing out, had cruelly hurled the word "Mudblood" at her. She had felt it simmer in her blood, hot and rancid, as her life-long friendship had crumbled to ashes over wounded male pride.

She understood Sherlock, because she knew what it was to hurt, and want to hurt in return.

Mycroft thought it was patience, and Sherry compassion that made her able to handle a vicious, angry Sherlock so effortlessly, even as she eased the hurt he caused. Lily knew, however, that it was experience. So, while Sherry frowned darkly and mumbled disapprovingly at Sherlock's attitude, Lily had quietly understood.

[End C 3]


	5. Chapter 5

"Recognizing Genius"

**Thank you, everyone, for the continued support, favoriting, following, and reviewing, despite my inconsistent update schedule. I had a bit of time and an idea, so I thought I'd give you an update, while I can. **

Disclaimer: I am not J. K. Rowling, nor a member of Scholastic/Warner Bros. and associates, nor A. Conan Doyle, nor Mark Gatiss, nor Stephen Moffat, so I have legal rights to absolutely nothing.

_Mediocrity knows nothing higher than itself; but talent instantly recognizes genius—Arthur Conan Doyle (The Valley of Fear)_

[C 4]

When Severus was a boy, hopelessly—desperately—in love with his only friend, he'd never thought he could be content to watch her with a family that she had made with another person, a person that was not him. Yet, here he was, enjoying a pleasant cuppa with his dear Lily, her youngest boy perched on his knee and getting crumbs all over his lap. It felt surreal, like he was trapped in a dream he wasn't sure he wanted to wake up from, no matter how bitter-sweet. Even so, the gentle weight of the tea cup felt hot against his palm, the fine glaze smooth against his callused skin. Severus pointedly ignored Lupin's beaming smile in his direction as he buried his nose in the child's soft hair, even as he reclined his tiny form against his chest.

From the moment that he and Lupin had arrived for tea, the precocious child had not let him out of his tiny grasp. Though his diction was impressive for a child his age, the childish lisp belied Tristan's age. If Severus found it endlessly endearing, he'd never let on. If he did, Remus would never let him live it down, and that troublesome imp Sherlock would pout darkly at him, thinking he was making fun of his little Tristy.

The steady flow of childish babble was finally interrupted by Lily as she handed the boy his own small cuppa. "Now that you've said you hello, why don't you give mummy a moment to say hello, too, alright?"

The child sighed, looking very long-suffering, and Severus pointedly looked away and sipped his tea to keep himself from the unbecoming snigger that caught in his throat. Lupin, the layabout, had no such qualms as he snorted in amusement at the child's expression. "Alright, mummy. Ta'mon Sherlock, le's go play _pirate~s_."

This time, Severus did not fight the slight curl to his lips at Tristan's gleeful whisper, especially when it seemed to perk Sherlock up, as if he'd been offered his own pirate ship, loot and all. With barely a nod, Sherlock dragged the child from the room, whispering feverishly to his brother, who toddled after his hurried steps. Severus watched the two go until they were out of the room before turning back to his tea. Lupin was sharing a smile with Lily, and though he was loath to share anything with the flea-bag, even amusement, Severus felt a matching grin stretch his mouth. Lily was going to have her hands full once those two hit puberty.

…

Mycroft felt himself sink into his favorite of Uncle Fergus' antique wing-back chairs, his book resting on his lap. While he was enjoying the peace of the Estate—had been for the twelve weeks that he'd been there—he could admit that he missed the sound of Tristan's laughter, of Sherlock's whinging. Though the bi-weekly calls from Tristan helped in some ways, it also made it worse in others. Mycroft would hear the laugh in the child's voice and find himself missing the sight of the tiny dimples that were only obvious when Tristan smiled. Other times, the child would be sniffling, holding back tears, and Mycroft would remember his little face, so sad, with cheeks streaked with tears.

Sherlock was a more complicated topic, not because Mycroft didn't miss his other younger brother, but because he missed the boy, even as the child stubbornly refused to speak to him, loudly declaring that he had "no wish to speak to that bastard." It hurt and infuriated him, reminding him why he was so reluctant to go home, but then he'd hear Tristan's soft voice scolding Sherlock, trying to insist that they both loved him and wanted him home soon. The whole situation was draining and confusing, and Mycroft just felt tired. Too tired to deal with the mess, but too tired also to deny that he'd put up with it, if it meant he could see his ducky smile again.

The shuffling of feet against thick carpeting distracted him from his brooding ("sulking," Tristan would have said darkly), and he looked up to see the young daughter of his uncle's head maid. They had not been properly introduced, though he had seen the girl often enough, watching him closely from across the room, or from a bay window as he enjoyed a stroll in the garden.

"Hello."

The girl stared, her long, dark hair partially hiding her large, dark eyes.

Mycroft held back a sigh and forced a smile on his face. "I'm Mycroft. You are...?"

"...Antheia."

He felt his smile relax and become more natural at finally getting a response from the tight-lipped child. "Well, Antheia, I'm pleased to meet you."

"...yeah. Yeah, you too, Mr. Mycroft."

"Just Mycroft, please."

"Alright. You like reading, 'just Mycroft'?"

Mycroft felt his lips twitch in reluctant amusement at the cheeky child. "Yes, _obviously_. Do you?"

A careless shrug. "Depends."

"On...?"

A cheeky roll of the child's eyes was so reminiscent of Sherlock that Mycroft nearly rolled his own eyes. "On if I feel like reading at the time, _obviously_."

Despite being strongly reminded of Sherlock, pre-rift, Mycroft found himself amused with the child. "Well, don't let me stop you, should you 'feel like it,' at present."

"Nah. I'm busy anyway. See ya later, 'just Mycroft.'"

"Yes, indeed."

With a guileless smile, the rosy-cheeked girl turned and flounced out of the room. Mycroft stared after her, bemused. Maybe it was because he came from a family of no nonsense women, but he wasn't sure what to make of this strange, mouthy little girl. Ah, well. He had time to figure her out.

…

Sherlock rolled his eyes as Tristan bounced in his seat, nose pressed up against the glass of the window as the car drove toward the station. He wanted nothing to do with going to pick up That Bastard from the train station, but had given in—much to his disgust—the minute Tristan had turned his big, green eyes on him. Honestly. He had no idea why Tristan was so fond of their fussy swot of an older brother, but perhaps, for Tristy's sake, he could play nice. Just for today.

[End C 4]


	6. Chapter 6

"Recognizing Genius"

Disclaimer: SEE CH 1. Still does not belong to me.

Thanks to those who continue to read, review, favorite, and follow. This story, as you can see, is not abandoned. I just needed a bit of inspiration for this chapter.

...

_Mediocrity knows nothing higher than itself; but talent instantly recognizes genius—Arthur Conan Doyle (The Valley of Fear)_

[C 5]

"...if you say One. More. Word, Lupin, I _swear_..." the ass merely waved his hands in silent apology, even if his Cheshire grin belied that he was enjoying Severus' humiliation.

Let it never be said that Severus Snape never went out of the way for his loved ones. In this case, though he'd deny it vehemently, that loved one was not Lily, but darling little Tristy. He'd been unable to say no when the boy had invited him to his third birthday, eyes shining and practically vibrating in anticipation. After the child had run, shrieking in glee, from the parlor, Lily had given him one of her stunning smiles and begged indulgence, as Tristy "just adores you, Sev." Severus had nodded, fighting back a pleased grin. Lupin, the forever tag-along, had given him a grin, pleased-as-punch, as if he had been the one that was cheerfully invited to the party.

...which brought him back to now, with an insufferable Lupin unsuccessfully hiding his laughter in a glass of champagne. Severus straightened, sneering disapprovingly at the man, even if he knew that his attempt at dignity was lost, festooned as he was in colorful streamers, with a cheerfully bright and ludicrously tiny party hat perched on his dark hair. Still, Severus refused to remove his decorations, if only because it was Lily's precious child's birthday; there would be no cause for frowning from the boy, the least of all from him.

Severus felt his mouth twitch as he watched the birthday boy run around the magnificent garden, a rainbow of streaming fluttering behind him, as his own hat kept slipping from its perch to dangle around his thin neck by the string, like a ridiculous tie. He could not quite deny it was endearing and hilarious to watch his vigilant brothers trailing behind him, one to make sure he didn't hurt himself on the various pieces of furniture put out for the party, and the other equally as festooned with streamers and party paraphernalia, but with the addition of a Plasticine sword and his father's necktie around one eye, like a pirate's eye patch.

Severus brow furrowed as Lupin stepped up behind him, but he didn't let his mouth twitch down into a frown. If Tristy saw it, it would worry him, and there would be none of that, thank you. "As brilliant as they are, it's easy to forget they're kids, sometimes."

His eyes flickered to Lupin's face in acknowledgment, but kept his silence. "Severus?"

"Lupin?"

"Should we tell them?"

"About what, Lupin?" This was not the day, or the place, for the kind of conversation Lupin wished to have, but the stubborn man would not be put off.

"Lucius. He's grown rather...out-spoken...about his opinion of 'new-bloods'. I know that Lily says they're safe, but...how long do you think it will be until he acts out, especially now?" The man's voice dropped to a whisper and his gaze darted pointedly to the child laughing and playing with little Tristy.

Though the boy was two years Tristy's senior, and completely a Wizard, in every way that counted, Neville Longbottom seemed to be completely content in the young Holmes' company. The child's grandmother, the stately Mme. Longbottom, stood regally amongst Lily's in-laws, the notorious "Three Mesdames," looking not in the least out of place. Though it was reassuring to know that he would not be dealing with a spoiled little Boy-Who-Lived in future, the sight was troubling for another reason.

Lucius Malfoy. He had no shame airing his opinion of those of 'new-blood' (shamelessly throwing the phrase 'Mudblood' around was for times he wasn't in the public eye) and where he believed their place in society was. Though he disapproved of marriage between the 'new-blood' population and pure-bloods, he was firmly of the opinion that, were they given such an honor, they should adhere to the traditions forever more. The fact that Lily had not wrapped herself in black mourning robes and cloistered herself like a nun, only going into public with a suitable male chaperone, was one hit against her in that man's book. The second, and most damning, was her public marriage to Sherrinford—though wealthy and from a very respectable lineage, he was a Muggle, and thus an _insult_ to the magic gifted her.

The fact that the 'shameless new-blood' who had 'abandoned her place in the Wizarding role' was now 'corrupting the pure-blood scion of the Longbottom House, and the Boy-Who-Lived' would be considered a grave insult, were he to learn of it. Considering the kind of gossip and socialite that Mme. Longbottom could be, he doubted that Lucius would not hear about it. When that happened, Severus bet that Lucius would have a thing or two to say about it—to him, and to any other who he could rant at. Still, that was a worry for later, when Severus and Lupin could sit down with the Holmes and Mme. Longbottom. For now, it appeared to be time for cake and presents.

"Lupin...now is not the time. We'll discuss it—we will all discuss it—later. There are children around, and you will not spoil Tristan's day."

Shoulders stiffened and posture impeccable, Severus made his way towards the children, skillfully ignoring the multitude of smiles aimed in his direction for his colorful decorations. As he said to Lupin, this was dear Tristy's day, and the likes of Lucius Malfoy and his grumblings would not spoil it. He'd never allow it.

. . .

Sherrinford bit his bottom lip and buried his nose in his sleeping child's hair, cradling him close as the boy draped himself in his arms. He'd let Lily say farewell for the both of them, because if he opened his mouth to speak to Severus, he'd end up in gales of unappreciated laughter. In addition to the garlands of decorations Tristy had bestowed upon the man upon his arrival, he now had the addition of a carefully painted pink cat-face on his left cheek. It seemed that what Lily had said was true...that man could not seem to say no to their youngest.

Tristy snuffled in his sleep, the sound muffled by his face buried against Sherry's shoulder. He smiled, squeezing his boy in a gentle hug and pressed a soft kiss to the side of the messy hair. "Happy Birthday, Tristy." His voice was low, as to not wake the boy, and he continued to slowly rock in place as Lily bid their guests farewell.

Honestly, he was surprised the boy could sleep. The child smelled so heavily of the rich cakes and pastries and fruit punch that had been laid out that he was surprised the boy was sleeping so deeply. Tristy mumbled in his sleep and turned his face toward his. Sherrinford smiled, the child's soft, round cheek pressed to his shoulder, making his punch-stained mouth pout out. The little boy's small hand clenched around his shoulder in sleep and he let out another sleepy snuffle. Sherry pressed a swift kiss to his boy's forehead. His child, his baby boy, was growing too fast. Soon enough, he'd be 'too old' for snuggles, like Sherlock.

Sherrinford watched Remus and Severus leave with a smile. It had been a good day, and Tristy had found a playmate his age (though he was sure to hear about it from Sherlock, who was still not the best at 'sharing' his brother). With one last wave to the lingering family, Sherry slowly carried his youngest child to bed, holding him close in a tender hug. _Happy Birthday, my precious boy...I love you dearly._

. . .

_**Boy-Who-Lived Spotted at Muggle F**__**ê**__**te**_

_by Rita Skeeter_

_Neville Longbottom, the five-year-old Boy-Who-Lived, and his grandmother Mme. Longbottom, Head of House Longbottom, were seen in the company of the Holmes', a family of well-respected wealthy muggles. While this may not surprise those who are aware of the Longbottom family's stance on new-bloods and non-magicals, many were surprised to learn that the child with whom he kept company, Tristan Sherrinford Holmes, is the only biological child of one Lily Holmes, formerly Lily Potter..._

Lucius reclined in his seat, hands clenched tight around the newspaper as he carefully set it down. He wished to throw the paper, he wished to rage, but he would not. He was not some barbarian muggle, nor one of their magic-thieving cousins, the wretched mudbloods. He was a pure-blood, one who followed the Old Ways, and would not let his anger rule him in this way.

However. He say no reason why he could not exercise his anger in a more productive way, one that would get his point across to the upstart Potter widow that she was not welcome amongst the company of pure-bloods, especially after how she'd shamed her late husband's legacy. Now it was only a matter of deciding who it would hurt her more to lose—her husband, or her half-muggle child.

[End C 5]


End file.
